Prompt Post #1

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Re: Matt/Claire - literal torture porn

[(Anonymous)]

((I'm not going to freak out that posting on anon means that I can't fix errors after the fact. I'm not. Really.))

---


"Hydra," Matt tells her, and "some kind of bioweapon," he says. "I need him to live. I need him to talk." He's still wearing his cowl, so she can't see his whole face, but his voice is earnest and urgent.

Claire looks at the hunched stranger propped against the brick, curled protectively around a visibly-broken arm and a steadily-blooming wetness on one side of his shirt. It glistens black in the dim light, but it's a sure bet that it's really a rich crimson. Despite the pain he must be in, he's still defiant, glare steady over a swelling nose and a red-rimmed sneer.

At least it's not Matt she'll be mending tonight. And what does it say that she'd rather be healing some random henchman than her... well. Whatever.

"You should talk," she informs her new patient. "The sooner you do, the sooner I can patch you up."

"Hail Hydra," the man wheezes, spitting onto the rooftop gravel between them, gross and thick with mucous and possibly a bit of lung.

"Fuck this," she says, her usual professional concern already in tatters and shredding finer now that she has to play nice with this neo-Nazi shitstain. She crouches down, still out of range but at a level to return his glare. "You should really talk," she says, low and even.

"Claire," Matt says, responding to something in her voice, in her heartbeat maybe. That's fine.

"I had friends in DC," she informs the agent. "My cousin's fiancee worked for SHIELD and he didn't know until her body turned up in pieces in the Potomac three weeks later. So don't make any pretenses at having the same kind of loyalty she did unless you want to prove it the same way she did."

The agent looks contemptuous; admittedly, she didn't dress to intimidate after she got Matt's call when she threw on her striped maxidress, but fuck it, she was in a hurry. She can fix that impression real quick, though. She stands up, looks at Matt. "I'll get my kit."

Matt nods, looking a little stunned at the edge in her tone, eyebrows lifted and a disbelieving curl to the corner of his mouth.

That's just fine.

***

They have to muffle his screams with a towel as Claire sets the bone, none too gently and with perhaps slightly less efficiency than she could have. They stay on the roof. "We can throw him off if we need to," Matt tells her. She bares her teeth at him fleetingly, wondering if he can discern the nuances of smiles, whether he can tell warm humor from grim.

There's a wide, ugly stab wound just under her patient's collarbone that she prods with two gloved fingers. "Did you stab him with a piece of glass?" she asks, seeing a glint past the now-sluggish blood.

"He might have taken a short trip through a large window," Matt admits.

"Ah," she says, then pulls the towel from over the agent's mouth. "All right, Klaus," she says, hearing Matt's laugh near her shoulder, "This can hurt a little or a lot. Whaddya say?"

'Klaus' presses his mouth into a thin line and looks away.

"Get me the pliers," she says, setting the narrower, more precise surgical forceps aside. Matt complies without a word, and she moves the towel back into place.

***

"Where is it?" Matt says, firm and inexorable.

"If you cut off one head-" 'Klaus' responds for the fifth time.

"Oh, don't worry," Claire says, running the shears up his pant leg. "We're letting you keep your head. Functional kneecaps? Those are negotiable."

She tells Matt where to cut, how to angle in from the outside to avoid the saphenous vein. "...I don't know how to describe it," she says, fumbling for words. "It feels like-"

"Show me," Matt says, and she guides his fingers over the subtle landscape of ligaments and tendons.

"There," she says, pressing into the hollow, "right under-"

"Guitar strings," he tells her, and she sees the flash of his smile in the dark. "They feel like guitar strings."

"I've never been very musically-inclined," she replies. "But I'll keep that in mind."

Matt presses the blade in and under and in, and their patient gives a prolonged, muffled shout that tapers off into faint sobbing.

"How about you, Klaus?" she says. "Can you sing?"

***

Claire's not Matt, doesn't have whatever abilities he's developed to read people more reliably than sight. But when she settles back on her heels after after one last check over their patient, she finds that Matt hasn't moved from his crouch behind her. He's radiating heat, close but cautious, clearly still poised to follow her lead. His breath fans in an unsteady rhythm along the side of her neck.

"I can't believe you enjoy this," she comments, her heart tripping in her chest. Klaus is lying on his side, facing away from them, silent and still. Alive, but hopefully regretting that fact if he somehow hasn't passed out from the pain.

"I enjoy watching you work," Matt replies equably.

Claire doesn't make the cheap quip, doesn't deflect or move away. She twists, instead, grit grinding under her knees. "I enjoy working with you," she says, "instead of on you."

"Thought you liked the perks," he says, grin cutting wicked and wide across his face. It's impossible for her to resist, her skin prickling electric from adrenaline and success. She leans in, tastes the curl of his mouth and the sharp edge of his teeth as she licks her way in.

Matt brings a hand up to cup her face, adding the scents of sweat and leather and copper to the air. She can almost taste it, too. He makes a frustrated noise, pulling away to strip both gloves off, his bare fingertips tracing her cheek as he ducks back in to kiss her again, more insistent.

She pushes back, pushes up into the arc of him, her own hands - gloved in blue, streaked in red - gripping his spread knees. He shouldn't be able to keep his balance like this, but he's steady anyway, pulling her close.

"Matt," she murmurs, "You should-"

"We have time," he assures her, his touch ghosting down her jaw, her neck. She expects him to curve his hand around her breast, and her nipples tighten in anticipation, but instead, he places his palm against her chest, just over her heart.

She presses her lips in the hollow just under the angle of his jaw, feeling his pulse jump.

"Claire," he says, voice raw. His other hand is toying with the hem of her skirt.

We shouldn't, she thinks, but aloud she says, "Yes."

His fingers skim up her thigh, drag a line inward to where she's already wet and wanting. The pleased noise he makes in the back of his throat makes her flush, faintly abashed at the reckless rush of this, but she just kisses him again, bracing her knees wide as he pushes past elastic and cotton and then in.

Whatever his armor is, it makes the material of her gloves stutter under her palms as she strokes up the line of his thighs, the firm muscle she knows is there obfuscated by the layers between them. Irritated, she hooks one elbow behind his arm to peel off her gloves and toss them to the side.

Fortunately, his hero suit's structured like proper clothing, belt and waistline and fly just where she expects them, no weird catches to trip her up as she seeks skin. He moans, then, helplessly, trying to rock into her palm with only partial success. She uses her other hand on his chest to nudge him, and he takes her cue, rolling back gracefully to his haunches, his back.

Claire follows, crawling up his body, catching the ends of her skirt so it doesn't snag under her knees. As she twists to kick off her underwear, gravel digs into her shins, sharp pain that cuts through the fog of her haste. She tucks her hair behind her ear and looks down at Matt. His expression is open and imploring, face tipped in the way she's learned means that he's absolutely focused. "Claire," he says.

She bends down to kiss him for a long moment, slick and dirty. "Yes," she tells him in a breath across his lips before she adjusts, tilting her hips, and sinks down onto him. His head goes back, throat arching prettily, his incisors cutting into his lower lip as he chokes back a groan.

Matt brackets her hips with a careful grip, rolling under her like a wave, slow and smooth. Some other time, Claire thinks, and sets her teeth into his neck, just above his collar. "Come on," she says, and he huffs a laugh into her hair.

"You're the boss," he says, and she nips him again just as he picks up the pace. There are a thousand little things she'd have changed if this were anything like planned - using a bed, or at least a cleaner flat surface, having fewer clothes hindering full range of movement - but it's still better than it has any right to be. She can feel the first sparks along her nerve endings, and it's not that it's been a while, it's that it's Matt under her, fucking up into her with the single-minded intensity that he generally reserves for less pleasant pursuits.

And Christ, he's good with his hands, she thinks as he reaches between them to stroke two calloused fingertips along either side of her clit, gradually increasing the pressure according to some timetable he's got for driving her out of her goddamned mind.

"Matt," she pants, sitting up, and "Matt," she repeats, edging into a plea.

"Yeah," he replies, "Yeah, c'mon Claire. Let me hear you." Behind her, his bootheels scrape against the grit as he braces against her counter-rhythm. Then he shifts the angle of his wrist, and her orgasm knocks all the air from her lungs in a rush, sudden and shocking. As it turns out, even exceptional willpower has its limits; Matt's tempo staggers and his body goes taut below her as he lets out a low moan through bared teeth.

Claire rides it out, grinding in little circles, chasing aftershocks as she gasps. "Oh my god," she says finally, and Matt laughs, loose-limbed and relaxed as she so rarely gets to see him. Reality filters in, piecemeal. "Oh Christ, we're on the roof."

"Really not a surprise," he responds. It's not an unfair comment, but she thwacks him in the chest anyway. He chuckles at her again when the armor makes her palm sting.

"Also: you're in the suit," she points out, "and we're next to an unconscious-" Matt's cheek twitches, and she pauses. "Matt."

"Yes?"

"Please tell me he's unconscious."




---

Re: Matt/Claire - literal torture porn

[(Anonymous)]

Oh my god, this was so hot. Dark, bloody, and hot. Amazing, anon.

Re: Matt/Claire - literal torture porn

[(Anonymous)]

OP

I'm like. Weeping with joy that you filled this prompt, anon, and that you did it so, so gloriously. This is gorgeous, and it's so well characterized, and now they have to kill that poor dude because he knows their names. WELP.

Re: Matt/Claire - literal torture porn

[(Anonymous)]

Author!anon

Yay! I'm glad you liked it! Thanks for giving me the excuse to write some dirtywronghot for this fandom. ^_^

(WELP indeed)

Re: Matt/Claire - literal torture porn

[(Anonymous)]

oh wow, anon, this was great and wrong and perfect.

Re: Matt/Claire - literal torture porn

[(Anonymous)]

This was totally worth stalking the prompt for -- exactly the right chord in their dynamic played like total champ. You kick ass for writing this, it was really fucking sexy to read.